A Scandalous Affair

I didn't include Mikey in my earlier post, Seventh Chance, (about my seven chances at love) because our relationship ended just a couple of weeks after it had begun.  I was a junior in high school and he was an eighth grader, and at the time, it was a scandalous affair.  But, Mikey was mature for his age and I was, well, desperate.  All of my girlfriends had significant others (Peggy was married already, and no, she was not pregnant), and I wanted someone to call my own, too.  The boys my age couldn't get past my unattractive exterior, but Mikey saw something special in me and told me so within forty-five minutes of meeting me in my friend Becky's front yard.

"He's the little boy next door.  I used to babysit him," Becky said while lathering her body with baby oil and iodine, a concoction used to absorb more of the sun's harmful rays.  We were lying on two blankets spread out on the grass when I asked about the cute boy playing in her neighbor's driveway.  A short time later, the little boy next door was sitting on his babysitter's blanket showing interest in--WHO?--me?  Really?  Me?

A FEW  HOURS LATER

Mikey and I were sitting on a sofa in his living room.  His parents were jewelers, and they were both at work.  He liked me a lot, he said.  He put his arm around me and told me he wanted to give me something special. After leaving the room for a few minutes, he was back with a velvet-covered display tray with row after row of women's rings.  "Pick anyone you want," he said, so I chose one with a large star in the middle, with multi-colored stones, surrounded by smaller stars encrusted with diamonds.  After knowing Mikey for only three hours, I had a ring.

I didn't care what Becky or my classmates thought.  The age difference didn't matter to me.  I now had what all my friends had--that special someone who cares.  I was no longer a third-wheel, or a tag along, or the odd one out, or the one never chosen.  I was like everyone else now: coupled.  

It ended as fast as it began.  Who knew a young mind could be so premeditative, so cunning?  Obviously, not me.  My parents were at work. Lynnette was taking a nap. There was a knock at the door.  An unexpected visitor.  Mikey. My boyfriend had been thinking.  Now that I had a ring, he felt our relationship should advance to the next step. We hadn't even kissed yet, so I thought advancement was a good idea.  "Could we pull back the drapes on the windows to let in the sun?" he asked.  I opened the drapes.  "Could we lie down on the carpet and do our kissing there?" he wanted to know. We got comfortable on the floor. And, would it be okay if we did our kissing with him lying on top of me?

HUH?

While I was returning the ring and saying goodbye to the little boy who lived next door to Becky, something in the window caught my attention.  Three bobbing heads.  Giggling, bobbing heads.  Friends of Mikey's I presumed.  And so there it was.  The truth.

While I was trying to make sense of the betrayal, my story grew legs and ran through the school's corridors.  "Ha! Ha! What a funny story," everyone said.  I laughed along with them and pretended that none of it mattered.  And so there it was.  The lie.

So did I, at seventeen, learn anything from my brief brush with love? Nah!

A Reason to Stay Home

Nine months came and went and then one day I had a baby sister.  We all went to the hospital and looked through the large plate glass window to see what the new addition to our family looked like.  She was a miniature replica of my dad.  Mother was right.  She did have a little Indian in her.

What a difference having a new puppy or kitten or little person in the home makes.  It was a reason for me to come home and stay home.  She was the center of everyone's attention, and every single day she was doing something new and exciting.

"Oh, look! She's following me with her eyes."

"She just said 'Sissy.' Did you hear it?  Isn't that amazing for just two months old?"

"Would you look at that! She can hold her head up."

When she was nine months old, she was walking.  Judy and I would sit at opposite ends of the hallway and encourage her with Hershey's Kisses.  Chocolate Kisses were the treat of choice when trying to get our new pet to do tricks.

"Okay, Lynnette.  Wanna treat?  Put on Mommy's high heels and twirl around and around and around, but don't fall down and hit your head on the coffee table."

"Oh, don't cry.  I told you to not do that.  Yes, you can have a treat anyway.  Just as soon as we stop the bleeding."

"Wanna treat, Lynnette?  Go potty.  No!  Not here!  Over there! Good girl."

"What?  You want a treat?  Okay.  Sit.  Stay.  No, you have to sit and stay until I tell you it's okay to get up.  Sit.  Stay.  Good girl."

So that's how it went until I moved out when Lynnette was seven.  She'd learned all of the tricks I was capable of teaching her.  So, she was on her own.  Besides, the newness had worn off, I was in my twenties and had a life away from home, until...

... they got a puppy.

Hard Times

Prince Charming had rescued us and Happily-Ever-After was in its last trimester in our new home in the suburbs of Lawrence when Mother announced she was with child.  She liked to say, "I have a little Indian in me," and everyone would laugh.  But the laughter ended the day my new dad was laid off from his job at a local factory.

After we moved on up to the north side, Mother was happy again.  Judy, who had blossomed into a beautiful woman, had met her future husband (in church, of course) and I, at fourteen, had accumulated enough friends at school and from our neighborhood that boredom and monotony were no longer the bane of me.

The new head of our household grew up in the backwoods of West Virginia and was familiar with the hardships of making due with what little his family had. If they were going to eat it, they would have to catch it or grow it.  Their house was a small shack that was little more than shelter from the outside.  It was unbearably cold in the winter and stifling hot in the summer, but he and his family did what they had to do to survive, and that is exactly what he would do now--now that he was committed to a mortgage for a new home for his wife and her children.  There would be hard times, but his family would survive. He would find a way.

*  *  *

It was a beautiful, white two-story farmhouse that sat beside a stately barn on a hundred acres that at one time was bordered by farmland. With the city moving north at a fast pace, it was now surrounded by motels, restaurants, strip malls, and gas stations.  The man who owned it was a gentleman farmer, who wore a suit everyday and owned several companies, in addition to the farm.  He was a wealthy, prominent businessman in the community and was known to be a no-nonsense, take-no-prisoners, tough negotiator.

My new dad was a quiet, shy man.  The little nuances in conversation that can promote your cause or derail it were unknown to him.  His words were simple and direct.  His intentions were sincere and honest.  And on the day that he stood on the front porch of the beautiful white house and nervously rang the doorbell, he knew the odds were against him.  When the man in the suit opened the front door to his beautiful estate and saw an unsmiling, dark-skinned stranger standing before him, he was not impressed, at first.

We survived.  My dad shoveled manure, baled hay, painted fences, repaired tractors, and so much more, until the day the factory called him back to work, but something very special and unlikely happened during that time on the farm.  The quiet, shy factory worker became close friends with the take-no-prisoners businessman, and that friendship remained strong until the last day in the life of our Prince Charming.

The Groundhog Ate Poison and Died

As far as I could tell, we would be living on Rawles Avenue, and Hazel would be my substitute father and strict boss-of-me forever.  Then one day Prince Charming rescued me and carried me off into the sunset to a place called "Thank God That's Over."

At age twelve, every day of my life was a rerun of the one that preceded it, or so it seemed.  There were no after-school activities or sports or social events or weekend plans or vacations or fun.  On rare occasions, if Mother and Hazel did plan something other than "nothing," and those plans were leaked to me in advance, life in the tiny white house on Rawles became unbearable for the big people.  Spare the rod, spoil the child was more than a proverb to Hazel; it was an entitlement that came with being the head of the household, but how do you justify spanking a child who is talking incessantly, running in circles, and bouncing off the walls because she is overcome with giddy anticipation?

"Is it today?  Are we going today? Tell me again.  We're going where?  We're doing what?  Will it be fun?  Is it far away?  Who all is going? Are we going today? Who's gonna be there?  Is it today?"

For seven years after Hazel met Mother in church and rescued her and her two daughters from Mother's fear of homelessness, it was Groundhog Day every day.

*Note:  The only exception to the above was when there was not a

 religious revival going on somewhere within a fifty-mile radius of Indianapolis.

Then one Sunday morning in 1958, the groundhog ate poison and died.  It occurred so fast that no one had time to mourn seven years of yesterdays--except for Hazel, that is.  Prince Charming came to church, met and fell in love with a pretty maiden in need of rescue, my mother, and everything changed.  We were married and carried off into the sunset to a place called, "Thank God That's Over." Goodbye Rawles Avenue.  Goodbye boss-of-me. We had a new house in the suburbs now and another head of the household.  A new life where every day would not be like the day that preceded it.

What?  You don't say?  The big hog's not dead after all? It was just the stomach flu?  Really?

*Note:  The only exception to the above was when there was not a

 religious revival going on somewhere within a fifty-mile radius of Lawrence. 

"Here Hoggy, Hoggy, Hoggy.  Want a cookie?  It's reeeeaaalll good.  No, really it is."

Do You Know Who I Am?

It was unfortunate.  And we were having such a good time, too.  Yes, we were drinking, but everyone drinks. When the party was over, we left. Everyone leaves when the party is over, don't they? So what's the big deal?  Since we drove to the party, it only made sense that we would drive away from it as well.  Everything I'm saying right now makes perfect sense to me, even though I clearly have had one drink too many, and there is a possibility that I may say something that could embarrass me later, but right now I'm an American citizen standing on American dirt--I have that right, ya know--and I'm thinking logically.  I can talk without slurring my words and walk without staggering.  What?  You want me to shut up and stop interfering with your cop job?  Are you a rent-a-cop, or something?  You don't look like a real cop with that big beer belly and those flat feet.  I've played a real cop in a movie once, and I can tell you're not a real cop.  Possibly you saw that movie.  Do I look familiar? No?  How about now? Recognize me now? Really?  Don't you go to the movies? What? You want me to shut up and get back in the car so you can arrest my husband for driving drunk?  I don't think so, mister rent-a-cop or whoever you are.  Hey! What are those? Handcuffs?

Hey!  Hey!  Hey!  Stop that right now!  I'm not kidding, Mister!  You're gonna be sorry.

DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?

Later that same morning...

Mugshot 4/19/13

I'm sorry.  No, really I am.

We Regret the Error

In the April 15, 2013, issue of People magazine, this correction was on page 6:

"...we implied that Kim Kardashian was wearing Alaia

  leggings.  She wore Lululemon.  We regret the error."

Are you thinking what I'm thinking?  There are things that are important in this world and then there's the insignificant, trivial stuff that some people (not you People magazine.  I'm referring to people in general) focus on, like economic recovery, suits with no scruples, global warming, extreme weather, poverty, super bugs, terrorism, unsettled middle east, crazy little man in Korea, and people (not you People magazine) who want to kill us. All of us.

I know what you're thinking.  Me too.  Thank you, thank you, thank you Kim for having your people call People's people to let them know they got it wrong. All wrong!  You could have blown me over with a Category 7 hurricane.  I was absolutely shocked when I discovered the truth about her leggings. Truth is, from the picture I saw...

I thought she was wearing no leggings at all.   

Thank you Kim Kardashian for correcting a very egregious error.

*  *  *

Correction:  In my blog dated today, I posted a picture of someone I thought was Kim Kardashian wearing no leggings.  It was, in fact, my hairdresser Kim Sniffledip.  I regret this error.

Through the Ages

If we live long enough, it's going to happen to all of us.  Aging, that is. Nothing puts that dreaded thought (or obsession) into perspective better than visual illustrations that show a woman's body as it goes through the aging process.

Note:  This illustration has not been updated

since Dwight Eisenhower was President of U.S.

Yesterday I was the image on the left.  Today, well, let's just say I'm in my mid-sixties.  Actually, that's a lie.  I'm closer to seventy than I wish to admit, and I'm not one bit happy about that.

I've done a little research on the subject of getting old--not that I needed to Google it, since I'm living it. But I thought you might want to know that there is good news for those of us who want to stay thirty-five forever.  But before I tell you what that is, let's review, shall we.

The Thirties

Great hair.

Soft supple skin.

Good muscle tone.

Firm breasts.

Can read close up.

Good feet.

Happy.

The Forties

A little salt sprinkled in the hair.

Is that cottage cheese I see?

Time to join the gym, honey.

They're still sorta firm.

Need glasses to read.

Nose is getting larger (all the

better to hold the glasses).

Bigger feet.  Is that a bunion?

Why aren't you smiling?

The Fifties

Ummmm.  Where to begin?

What's with the short hair and curls? 

I see you still haven't joined the gym.

Oh dear. Not firm, not firm at all.

You seem to have lost your knees.

Still wearing glasses (when you 

remember where you put them).

Is that a chicken waddle?

That's definitely a bunion.
Toenail fungus, too.

Nose still growing.

Arthritis acting up?
Flabby arms.

Is that a frown?

The Sixties

See The Fifties above, add 

a few more insults and you

have The Sixties

A tiny bit deluded.
Thinks she's thirty-five again.
Shhhhhh...don't tell her.
She's happy.

I do not look like this.

I have more hair.

GOODS NEW FOR THOSE WHO WANT TO STAY THIRTY-FIVE FOREVER!

Drum roll please...

The New Sixties

Shhhh....don't tell her.  She's happy.

We Are Under Attack

I recently read a fascinating book called Empire of the Summer Moon, written by S.C. Gwynne.  It's several stories in one book about the American West in the nineteenth century.  The book begins with a pretty nine-year-old girl,  Cynthia Ann Parker, being kidnapped by Comanche Indians from her family's home in Texas.  She disappears deep inside a mystery that would take decades to solve.  Was she brutally raped and beaten like her cousin, Rachel, who was kidnapped with her?  Had she been killed?  Was she sold into slavery?  Or did she embrace the Indians who had killed and scalped her father, grandfather, and left her grandmother beaten, raped, and close to death after their killing rampage through the Parker family compound on the spring morning of May 19, 1836?

While reading this book and for some time after, I struggled (I'm still struggling) with what appears to me to be a human condition, an innate human behavior that has been present from the beginning of man.  Throughout history, we hear over and over and over again stories of humans hurting humans.  I don't understand this.  As long as I live I will never understand why a human being would want to harm another human being.  Can they not imagine what that pain and suffering would feel like if it were them or their loved ones who had been hurt?  Are they not capable of empathy? The Comanches took pleasure in taking Rachel's newborn baby boy away from her, and while she watched, they held his feet and slammed his head against a tree.  But, before we think it was just the Indians who were savages, the American soldiers rode through villages with revenge on their minds and killed every living thing: men, women, children, old people, and dogs.  So, who were the savages?

We are under attack.  It's not Mother Nature with her extreme weather we should fear (although she isn't happy with us...for good reason), or Asteroids from outer space with annihilation on their minds, or Super Bugs from Chinese birds determined to make us sick and then die, or Big Foot hiding behind a tree waiting for us to walk by so he can jump out and go, "BOO!"

The enemy is within.  It is ourselves we need to fear.  I don't understand.  I never will.  I cry for Boston.  I cry for you.  I cry for me.  I cry for the children who will inherit this human condition and for the innocents who will suffer because of it.

Sick'n Tired

"I am very, very, very upset right now!" the man said.  He was standing in our living room on Cowee Mountain and using our house phone to spew his anger at the person on the other end of the line.  Tom and I rent our home on occasion to people who want to vacation in the mountains, and our new tenants hadn't been in town five minutes before they had become victims.  His wife was standing next to him, goading him on.  They were furious. They had been misled, he said.  They had been taken advantage of, and he was "sick'n tired" of people who took advantage of others.  He talked about a time in 1976 when he witnessed a man pocket $20 of his hard-earned money.  He brought up other incidents dating back decades when people just like the person he was talking to on the phone had ripped him off.

I was speechless as I listened to this man vent.  When he threatened to call the sheriff, the tension increased tenfold.  Yes, they had reasons to be upset, but was it necessary to call in the big guns?  When he realized the person he was talking to would not be able to right the wrong, he became even more verbally abusive.

"You people," he yelled, "sit back and wait for your prey to cross your devious path, and when you have them right where you want them, you spring your trap."  Goodness gracious, great balls of fire! The person on the other end of the line must be the scum of the earth.

If you've read any of my previous posts, you know that I am a believer in respect.  Respect seems to have lost its "cool" these days, especially in Hollywood, the place where many of our youth and their parents, aunts, uncles, and next door neighbors look for moral guidance and behavior mentoring.  Reality television has shown us that it's okay to cross the line of civility for whatever reason.  For Hollywood, bizarre behavior increases ratings which equals more money.  For others, it's behavior that feels good in the moment.

You say you ordered your steak medium well, but it came to your table still mooing?  Scream at the waitress.  It's okay!  No, really it is.  What?  The person sitting behind you in church every Sunday sings off key?  Turn around next Sunday and say, "Your singing sounds like two !@#$%! rabid cats in heat!"  Just say it.  It's okay.  The next time you're at a restaurant and the people who came in after you are served first, get up, walk over to the their table, say a few curse words and then knock their food on the floor.  Just do it.  When you perceive that you've been wronged, it's acceptable to say and do whatever you want in order to feel better. And if that venting can be directed toward someone who can't see you, all the better.  Take, for example, the angry man in our living room on Cowee Mountain yelling into our phone at the scum bag who wronged him:  me.

That's right. I was the devious scum bag who sat back and waited for Sick'n Tired and his wife to cross my path so I could spring the trap and do what?  I was confused.  So why am I going to jail?

"Your website clearly states that smoking in your house is permitted!" The wife yelled past her husband and into the phone. "And yet I see a 'Thank you for not smoking sign' on the door.  That's deceptive advertising.  We want our money back right now!"

I was in Indianapolis when I saw that our house phone in Franklin, North Carolina, was calling me on my cell.  How nice, I thought.  Our tenants were calling to say they had arrived safely.  But this was not one of those calls.  After discovering their dilemma (they didn't want to smoke outside for several days),  I felt terrible and apologized for the mistake on our website, but I was four hundred miles away, and Tom was fishing, so "right now" was not an option.  After Sick'n Tired had emptied all of his ammunition into me and had stopped to reload, I broke through my fear of confronting and said, "Why are you so mean? Why are you treating me with disrespect?" 

In an instant, he went from furious, mean and threatening to calm, nice and chatty.  My question was the perfect antidote to the poison that was pulsating through his body.  He was past it and wanted to be friends.  I was still shaking and wanted to hang up.  So I did.

Consider the Heart Before You Beat it Up

"He just irritates me sometimes," she said, while eating lunch with me and another co-worker in the lunchroom at Thomson Multimedia.  It was January 2000, right after all of the computers in the world crashed.  Remember that?  Anyway (or is it anyways), the three of us were discussing Suze's significant other. Suze had been married for twenty-five years and she still loved her husband, but he did things that bugged her. He walked like a duck, made little smacking noises when he ate, and talked through his nose, just to name a few irritants.

After working for Thomson (formerly known as RCA), almost thirty years, I had lots of office friendships that ended at 5:00 o'clock every day and picked back up at 8:00 the next morning.  Suze was one of those friends.  Always positive, very intelligent, good conversationalist, easy laugh, and sweet.  Suze was so sweet.  Except, that is, when it came to her significant other.  "He's a wonderful man; he adores me, yet I'm so hard on him," she continued during our lunch hour, "but I can't help myself.  I can be so mean, and he never says anything.  He just takes it."

Thirteen years have passed since that conversation with Suze, who is still married to her wonderful, yet irritating husband.  So many times over the years I've wondered why.  Why is Suze, a sweet woman to everyone else, so mean to the man who adores her? Why does her husband allow her to treat him so disrespectfully?  Why has this dynamic lasted so long without Suze realizing the harm she is doing to her husband and her marriage? Why are so many people just like Suze? Why is Suze's disrespectful behavior toward her husband so common in up-close and personal relationships?

CONSIDER THE HEART BEFORE YOU BEAT IT UP

When my younger sister Lynnette moved in with me when she was eighteen, I had expectations.

1. When the pile of clothes on the floor reaches 5',
     it's time to put them away.

2. When the sink, stove, and countertops are full of
    dirty dishes, it's time to wash them.

3.  Don't leave the door wide open when leaving the house.

4.  Never stuff food down the sofa cushions.

5.  When the tub turns black, it's time to clean it.

6.  Don't hit other cars when backing out of the driveway.

There were other expectations, but the above were created out of frustration, irritation, and anger.   One would assume that one would look before backing up and hitting the car behind it, but, maybe not at eighteen or seventy-one for that matter.

It was during the short time that Lynnette lived with me (I moved out soon after she moved in) when I realized my not-so-nice scoldings and occasional verbal abuse sprinkled with naughty words were unwarranted.  She was young and naive and just out of childhood.  It occurred to me that her behavior was not devious or mean-spirited or intended to hurt me. She was a wonderful young woman who adored me. I realized then that before I got mad and took my frustrations and anger out on my loved ones, I should consider their heart. Why did I think I had the right to disrespect others?  It's a message I wanted to share with my office friend, Suze, but I was afraid she would consider me an up-close and personal friend and yell at me.  So I'm telling you.

What Happens in Childhood, Stays in Adulthood

Tom and I recently watched a series of documentary films called The Up Series.  In 1964, fourteen seven-year-old British children, ranging from rich to poor, were selected for this series.  As young school children, they were asked questions that had to do with their opinions about life in general, their dreams, ambitions, and how they thought their lives would turn out. Every seven years the film crew returns to see where they are now.

"Give me a child until they are seven, and I will give you the man," is a Jesuit motto that director Michael Apted has repeated in every one of the seven films we've seen so far.  The eighth film called 56 Up is due to air soon.

There has been a lot of controversy about the series. Some believe the producers and director of The Up Series were using these people for monetary gain without considering the consequences of exposing them to public scrutiny and critique.  Regardless of their motives, I find the series fascinating.  It doesn't explain the whys, but it does give credibility to the Jesuit motto:  "What happens in childhood, stays in adulthood."  But I want to know and understand the "whys."

Why do we do what we do?  Why are some of us (like Tom, for example) so fundamentally stable, and why are others (like me) missing a few pebbles from their cornerstone?   After six decades,  I'm leaning a little to the right, but I look fine from the street, and my curb appeal, for my age, is acceptable, but it's those dang missing pieces that sometimes make my foundation shake, rattle and roll, and that can be worrisome, especially to a friend of mine, who thinks I should mix a little cement with Prosac and stuff it in the cracks.

It's not my fault, I tell you!  I wasn't the contractor of me.  Someone else built me. But they're not to blame, either.  Contractors are not perfect; they are human and to be human is to err.  Just ask any contractor, and they will tell you they do the best they can with the tools they have.  So. Missing a few pebbles?  No big deal!  Just add a little Prosac to the cement and stuff it in the cracks.

I'm only missing a couple of pebbles.  Not that many, really.  It's not that bad.  No, really it isn't.  From a distance, I look perfectly fine.

Love Without Conditions

Hazel wasn't happy.  I can still see her standing at the door crying as he backed his truck out of the long driveway on Rawles Avenue.  I was twelve but I'll never forget that disturbing scene of a strong, always-in-control woman crying, consumed by sorrow.  I was in the truck sitting on my sister Judy's lap.  Mother sat next to the driver, her new husband. All eyes were focused on the door.  Hazel fell to her knees and buried her head in her hands, her body heaving with sobs.  The truck continued slowly down the drive, backed out on to the street, and then drove away and out of Hazel's life forever.

He came to Indianapolis from the foothills of West Virginia.  At first it was difficult due to his backwoods "Aw, shucks" demeanor and native-American heritage.  Some folks confused him for black, and for no reason other than his looks, disliked and harassed him.  But he stayed until he found work in a local factory, joined a church, and eventually met and fell in love with Harriett Louise.

I was happy.  A new dad, a content mother (in the beginning, anyway), a house in the suburbs with my own bedroom, and a few years later, a little sister, Lynnette.

He had a great laugh.  I can still hear it so clearly, and he's been gone almost sixteen years.  When I take the time to reminisce about the forty years I knew him,  I slide back into that uncomplicated, comfortable, and safe space that he brought with him when he married my mother.

With him, there was no pretend.  No fake social bla, bla, blabber to win others over or insincere compliments to get people to like him.  There was no pride, bragging, or self-promotion.  He was a down-home country boy who didn't wear shoes until he went to school, and those had been passed down from an older brother and were full of holes,  but "I never allowed I was poor," he'd say.

With him, it was unconditional love directed right smack at me.  I'm pretty sure I was loved before 1957, but for a plethora of reasons--busyness, challenges, struggles of daily life, depression, fill in the blank--the words were never spoken.   If I'd had the ability to reason like an adult back then--which I didn't--I could have logically analyzed the environment in which I lived and come to a conclusion on my own.  "Well, of course I'm loved.  It's implied. I don't need to hear the words to know it's true." 

He focused on me; he made time for me.  He laughed at all my silly antics and childish jokes. He thought I was funny.  There was so much he wanted to teach me, he said.  He was the first person to tell me I was smart. Really? Me? Smart?  He didn't want me to make the same mistakes that he had made.

There was a simplicity to him that I haven't found in any other human being. He wasn't a Forrest Gump, but close.  His words and actions were, always, always, always, directly from the heart.  From 1957 to 1997,  this man whom I proudly called "Dad" adored and loved me and never failed to let me know it.

It took him eleven days to die after they told us there was nothing more they could do for him and unhooked life support.  He laid in a hospital bed in Community Hospital North unable to move.  They said he was in a coma, but we talked to him anyway as if he could still hear us.  Two days before he passed away, I spent the night on a cot in his room.  I wanted to have time with him alone, just the two of us before he was gone forever.  About two o'clock in the morning, he sat up in bed and said, "Please don't worry about me, Hon. I'm okay. I love you."  When I turned over in disbelief--he was in a coma and could not move--he was lying on his back with his eyes closed.  "I love you too, Dad," I said as I reached out to touch his unresponsive hand.  The next night Lynnette spent the night on the same cot in his room.  In the middle of the night she said he sat up in bed and reassured her that all was well.  The next day he passed away.  I will forever miss him, this man who loved me without conditions.

A Puddle of Pee

Three houses down from my former friend, Margaret, lived my accusers.  When I first moved to Rawles Avenue in Irvington I was nine with an innocence and naivete that allowed me to believe that everyone should like me.  What was not to like?  I was a good and nice little girl.  Even Hazel, the self-appointed head of our family, liked me a good bit of the time.   It was during those times when I behaved like a child (say, a nine-year-old) that got me in trouble with the boss.  But seven houses down the street, I was trouble; I was a very bad little girl.

"There she is!  Get her!" a girl about my age yelled over the chain-linked fence.  She was standing with an older girl and a man in their backyard.  Huh?  I was just walking down the street with my hands in my pockets.  What had I done?  I was used to angry accusations of wrongdoing at home, but these were strangers.  The girls pointed to me and the man started walking aggressively in my direction. "Stop right there!" he yelled.   I couldn't move; I was paralyzed. The girls joined the man on the sidewalk, and all three demanded I give it back.  I stood dumbfounded, saying nothing as they continued to yell at me.  I had no idea what they were talking about, yet I believed their anger at me was justified.  I was guilty. But guilty of what?  What had I done this time?

There is some debate at what age children can use mental reasoning to decipher their environment, apply logic to it, and then discuss it with intelligence and maturity.   Some say the age is seven.  Others say younger, but most agree it's no older than nine.  Not so in my case.   As I was standing alone on the sidewalk seven houses from home, surrounded by three screaming strangers, I was unable to discern fact from fiction.  In fact, they convinced me I had it--whatever it was.  Maybe I did have it.  The day before, when I walked past their house, possibly I saw it on the sidewalk, and I thought it belonged to no one so I took it.  I was confused.  I couldn't remember.

"You, young lady, are a very bad little girl!" The man said.  "Give it back right this minute or I will call the police!"  I began to tremble at the thought of going to jail.  I wet myself and started to cry, but I couldn't find the words to defend myself.  This adult, a person of power and authority, said I was bad, so therefore, it must be true.  I'd been on the losing end of false accusations many times under the tutelage of Hazel, so I knew my chances of proving myself innocent were not good.  I was being accused of stealing it by three angry neighbors, and I didn't even know what it was.  To make matters worse, once Hazel found out I wet myself, I would suffer the switch.

"I found it!"  A small child yelled from behind the chain-linked fence.  He was holding something in his hand and waving it back and forth.  "I found the turtle, guys! It was right here all along."  Suddenly, I was all alone on the sidewalk standing over a puddle of pee.  Oh, boy!  Was Hazel gonna be mad.

Sex with Ed Sullivan

Warning: This post contains sexual content, so if you're a child reading this, and your parents haven't told you the story about the plug and the electrical outlet yet, turn away. It's gonna get naughty.

Once upon a time oh so long ago, when I was living on the farm with my first husband, J.J., his every-other-weekend daughters, six-year-old Amy and eight-year-old Stacia, and our son, Jason, I took it upon myself to tell my step-daughters how babies are made.  Well, I thought they should know, and I didn't want to tell them the silly stork story like my mother had told me, or have them learn the hard way like I had, so I searched the house for the perfect tools to use in my "show and tell" sex education class.

"Come here, girls.  I have something I want to show you," I said as they ran screaming by me and jumped on the waterbed that filled the front room of our old farmhouse.  Their seventeen-month-old monster brother was chasing after them growling like a fierce bear cub.

"Girls!  Got something interesting to show you,"  I said again.  They ignored me and jumped off the bed, still screaming.  Jason fell on top of them.  Then all three took off running toward the kitchen.

"IT'S ABOUT HOW BABIES ARE MADE!" I yelled after them.  Three seconds later the girls were sitting next to me, one on each side.  Jason was still a big bad bear, but they didn't care and ignored him.

BACK TO 1957

By the time I was twelve I knew Mother had lied about the flying bird delivering babies in a sling.  Well, come on now. Really?  That makes no sense.  I was pretty sure that the woman's belly button opened up and out plopped the baby.  I suspected there was a man involved in the making of a baby, but I had no idea what part he played.  I knew his part did not involve seeing a woman naked, though, because in our house of four females, our bodies had to be covered at all times.  Being naked in front of another person, even a family member of the same gender, was a very bad thing.  It was a sin that could possibly send the offender to H E double L.

A few years before, when I was nine, Hazel had moved us to Irvington, a community of modest single-family homes six miles east of Monument Circle, and within a few weeks, Judy and I had become friends with Margaret, a girl who lived four houses away.  Her mother had told us that she had a seventeen-year-old body, but her mind was closer to my age.  Margaret and I became close friends and we spent a lot of time together at her house playing checkers and watching television from her big four poster bed.

One Sunday night, while Margaret was beating me at checkers, she informed me that a friend would be joining us later to watch The Ed Sullivan Show, so when twenty-something Howie showed up at her bedroom door, I was uncomfortable but not sure why.  Her mother seemed to think it was okay for Howie to share the bed with us while we watched television, so I figured my uneasiness was unwarranted.

While Margaret and Howie propped up pillows and leaned back against the headboard, I took my pillow and moved to the foot of the bed with my back to them.  When they started giggling, I wondered what they found so funny about the commercial.  Then the lights went out.  Loud slurpy lip-smacking noises followed.  "Oh, my goodness! What is that? Is that kissing?"  I laid perfectly still, paralyzed.  I felt the bed start to move. Then Margaret was leaning over me.  I closed my left eye, the only one she could see from her angle.   "It's okay, Howie," she said.  "She's asleep."  But I was very much awake.

Remember the part about me not knowing how babies were made? Neither did Margaret and Howie.  (I found out later that Howie's body was in its twenties, but his mind was younger than mine.)  So now there were three of us on the four poster bed who had no clue what to do.  Two trying desperately to figure it out; one trying to figure out how to escape the nasty naughty that was consuming the room.

I yawned and stretched to make them think I was waking up, but in the heat of the moment, they didn't notice.  Since I was asleep, they felt it would be okay to use every inch of the bedroom to get the job done.  Then they are between me and Ed Sullivan.  Oh yuck!  Two naked bodies saying things like, "I can't find it," and "Where does this go?"  I'm not making this up.  This really happened.

The next day my mother called Margaret's mother, and Margaret and I never saw each other again.  No more checkers, no more television in bed, no more sex with Ed Sullivan.

RETURN TO 1982

In one hand I was holding an electrical plug.  "This is the male," I said while Jason began smacking Amy and Stacia on the back of their heads with a Tonka truck.  "And this," I said while pointing to the outlet, "is the female."  I put the plug into the outlet and said, "And that is how babies are made."  

"Oh, okay." They said.  Then they were gone; chasing their baby brother through the house.  I thought I was saving them from the trauma of finding out about the nasty naughty on their own.  I thought they would thank me later.  They never did.

The Broken Me

It was a screaming contest between the three of us.  My eleven-year-old sister, Judy, had a good solid scream, but her friend Esther's was incredible; it was a beautiful high-pitched, piercing shrill that she could hold steady for twenty seconds or more. My scream sounded like a chicken giving birth to a breech egg.  Esther won.

I was eight and starting to take note of things I could not do well or not do at all.  Screaming was out.  So were whistling, singing, snapping my fingers, skipping rope, and throwing a ball. I also couldn't read like the rest of my classmates, and they were fast to single me out as different. When it came time for picking teammates, I was generally the last one standing. Concentration was difficult for me as well as sitting still or staying clean or keeping on task or following the rules.  A mix of these things in concert throughout each day kept me in a constant state of feeling broken.

What a difference a few chromosomes make.  Judy--same mother, same father--was the model child that Mother had prayed for.   She was pretty, smart, obedient, conforming, demure, and sweet.  I was an unattractive child who challenged the rules, found different means to justify the end, and was demur (demure without the "e").  But I was sweet.  Still am.  Just ask Tom.

Judy is seventy now and is still making Mother proud (me too).  I still can't scream or whistle or sing or snap my fingers or skip rope or throw a ball, and that's okay because it was that mix of things (and many more) in concert throughout my life that kept me always working that much harder to fix the broken me.  In 1953 no teacher excused me for not being able to read because I had a learning disability.  No one in my family appeared to notice.  It was very hard, but I fixed the problem myself. (Just sayin'...not making any politically-incorrect statement here.)

So, have I fixed most of those things that keep me in a constant state of feeling broken?  Nah!  But I'm sweet.   No, really I am.

The Love of Skunk

Skunk is one of my favorite smells.  It's right up there with coffee, baking sweets of any kind, freshly-mowed grass, old musty antique shops, and Maggie Mae's wonderful "doggy stink."  The love of skunk began oh so long ago, when I was just a little stinker myself.  

In the summer of my seventh year, my mother's roommate, Hazel, (I guess she was my roommate, too) took my mother, my sister, Judy, and me to visit her family on Spooner Lake in Wisconsin.  There were no interstates in 1952, just two-lane back roads through small towns and big cities all the way to the lake.  Until Hazel, I had never been more than three miles in any direction away from Monument Circle, the epicenter of Indianapolis, so going on a trip that would take two whole days in a car was beyond anything I could ever imagine.  I had a difficult time containing my enthusiasm. For weeks before we left, I was what Hazel called "a handful."

A Handful

Someone, generally a child, who is

 chock-a-block with excitement and energy; is
 in perpetual motion, who never, ever shuts up,
and tends to drive someone, generally an adult,
C-R-A-Z-Y!

                                              --Wikidikipedia

Hazel had met my mother in church and after a short friendship, she thought it would be a good idea if we all moved in together.  No one asked me what I thought about the new living arrangements, but at the time I was five and still carrying my "stinky blankey" everywhere I went, sucking my thumb--I finally stopped at twelve, which explains the buck teeth--and wetting the bed.  I definitely had an opinion, but no one could understand me through my tears, my thumb stuck in my mouth, and my blankey wrapped around my head.  Well, I was five.  What do you expect?

The new leader of our home, a self-proclaimed old maid, would have been an excellent matron at a girls' boarding school. Strict, no-nonsense, and great at keeping everyone in line.  She was a bit hefty, always wore dark-colored, mid-calf dresses with clunky shoes, and her hair was tight curls close to the scalp.  She wasn't particularly fond of children, which didn't bode well for me.  My sister, Judy, loved Hazel but she has always been a suck-up.  Just kidding, Judy.  No, really I am.

My most favorite memories from my childhood are the two trips we made to Spooner Lake when I was seven and eight.  Hazel was on vacation from work, and during our two weeks away from home, she forgot she was the boss of me.  I was free to be a kid.  I had permission to be a handful. She even let me love on her.  It was only four weeks total of my childhood, yet those were the "good times" that I remember.  

All the way up to Spooner and all the way back to 16th and Broadway, skunk after skunk crossed the road without looking both ways.  So, why did the skunk cross the road?  To get some lovin' on the other side.  Makes sense to me.